John Halifax, Gentleman by Dinah Maria Mulock (Mrs. Craik)

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But he had already slipped from my side and swung himself byfurze-bushes and grass down the steep slope to the water's edge.

It was a breathless moment. The eger travelled slowly in itspassage, changing the smooth, sparkling river to a whirl ofconflicting currents, in which no boat could live--least of all thatlight pleasure-boat, with its toppling sail. In it was a youth Iknew by sight, Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe House, and anothergentleman.

They both pulled hard--they got out of the mid-stream, but not closeenough to land; and already there was but two oars' length betweenthem and the "boar."

"Swim for it!" I heard one cry to the other: but swimming would nothave saved them.

"Hold there!" shouted John at the top of his voice; "throw that ropeout and I will pull you in!"

It was a hard tug: I shuddered to see him wade knee-deep in thestream--but he succeeded. Both gentlemen leaped safe on shore. Theyounger tried desperately to save his boat, but it was too late.Already the "water-boar" had clutched it--the rope broke like agossamer-thread--the trim, white sail was dragged down--rose up once,broken and torn, like a butterfly caught in a mill-stream--thendisappeared.

"So it's all over with her, poor thing!"

"Who cares?--We might have lost our lives," sharply said the other,an older and sickly-looking gentleman, dressed in mourning, to whomlife did not seem a particularly pleasant thing, though he appearedto value it so highly.

They both scrambled up the Mythe, without noticing John Halifax:then the elder turned.

"But who pulled us ashore? Was it you, my young friend?"

John Halifax, emptying his soaked boots, answered, "I suppose so."

"Indeed, we owe you much."

"Not more than a crown will pay," said young Brithwood, gruffly; "Iknow him, Cousin March. He works in Fletcher the Quaker's tan-yard."

"Nonsense!" cried Mr. March, who had stood looking at the boy with akindly, even half-sad air. "Impossible! Young man, will you tell meto whom I am so much obliged?"

"My name is John Halifax."

"Yes; but WHAT are you?"

"What he said. Mr. Brithwood knows me well enough: I work in thetan-yard."

"Oh!" Mr. March turned away with a resumption of dignity, thoughevidently both surprised and disappointed. Young Brithwood laughed.

"I told you so, cousin. Hey, lad!" eyeing John over, "you've beenout at grass, and changed your coat for the better: but you'recertainly the same lad that my curricle nearly ran over one day; youwere driving a cart of skins--pah! I remember."

"So do I," said John, fiercely; but when the youth's insolentlaughter broke out again he controlled himself. The laughter ceased.

"Well, you've done me a good turn for an ill one, young--what's-your-name, so here's a guinea for you." He threw it towardshim; it fell on the ground, and lay there.

"Nay, nay, Richard," expostulated the sickly gentleman, who, afterall, WAS a gentleman. He stood apparently struggling withconflicting intentions, and not very easy in his mind. "My goodfellow," he said at last, in a constrained voice, "I won't forgetyour bravery. If I could do anything for you--and meanwhile if atrifle like this"--and he slipped something into John's hand.

John returned it with a bow, merely saying "that he would rather nottake any money."

The gentleman looked very much astonished. There was a little moreof persistence on one side and resistance on the other; and then Mr.March put the guineas irresolutely back into his pocket, looking thewhile lingeringly at the boy--at his tall figure, and flushed, proudface.

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen, nearly."

"Ah!" it was almost a sigh. He turned away, and turned back again."My name is March--Henry March; if you should ever--"

"Thank you, sir. Good-day."

"Good-day." I fancied he was half inclined to shake hands--but Johndid not, or would not, see it. Mr. March walked on, following youngBrithwood; but at the stile he turned round once more and glanced atJohn. Then they disappeared.

"I'm glad they're gone: now we can be comfortable." He flunghimself down, wrung out his wet stockings, laughed at me for being soafraid he would take cold, and so angry at young Brithwood's insults.I sat wrapped in my cloak, and watched him making idle circles in thesandy path with the rose-switch he had cut.

So there, on the smooth gravel, and with the rose-stem for a pen, Itaught him how to form the letters of the alphabet and join themtogether. He learned them very quickly--so quickly, that in a littlewhile the simple copy-book that Mother Earth obliged us with wascovered in all directions with "J O H N--John."

"Bravo!" he cried, as we turned homeward, he flourishing his giganticpen, which had done such good service; "bravo! I have gainedsomething to-day!"

Crossing the bridge over the Avon, we stood once more to look at thewaters that were "out." They had risen considerably, even in thatshort time, and were now pouring in several new channels, one ofwhich was alongside of the high road; we stopped a good whilewatching it. The current was harmless enough, merely flooding a partof the Ham; but it awed us to see the fierce power of waters letloose. An old willow-tree, about whose roots I had often watched theking-cups growing, was now in the centre of a stream as broad as theAvon by our tan-yard, and thrice as rapid. The torrent rushed roundit--impatient of the divisions its great roots caused--eager toundermine and tear it up. Inevitably, if the flood did not abate,within a few hours more there would be nothing left of the fine oldtree.

"I don't quite like this," said John, meditatively, as his quick eyeswept down the course of the river, with the houses and wharves thatabutted on it, all along one bank. "Did you ever see the waters thushigh before?"

"Yes, I believe I have; nobody minds it at Norton Bury; it is onlythe sudden thaw, my father says, and he ought to know, for he has hadplenty of experience, the tan-yard being so close to the river."

"I was thinking of that; but come, it's getting cold."

He took me safe home, and we parted cordially--nay, affectionately--at my own door.

"When will you come again, David?"

"When your father sends me."

And I felt that HE felt that our intercourse was always to be limitedto this. Nothing clandestine, nothing obtrusive, was possible, evenfor friendship's sake, to John Halifax.

My father came in late that evening; he looked tired and uneasy, andinstead of going to bed, though it was after nine o'clock, sat downto his pipe in the chimney-corner.

"Is the river rising still, father? Will it do any harm to thetan-yard?"

"What dost thee know about the tan-yard!"

"Only John Halifax was saying--"

"John Halifax had better hold his tongue."

I held mine.

My father puffed away in silence till I came to bid him good-night.I think the sound of my crutches on the floor stirred him out of along meditation, in which his ill-humour had ebbed away.

"Where didst thee go out to-day, Phineas?--thee and the lad I sent."

"To the Mythe:" and I told him the incident that had happened there.He listened without reply.

"Wasn't it a brave thing to do, father?"

"Um!"--and a few meditative puffs. "Phineas, the lad thee hast sucha hankering after is a good lad--a very decent lad--if thee doesn'tmake too much of him. Remember; he is but my servant; thee'rt myson--my only son."

Alas! my poor father, it was hard enough for him to have such an"only son" as I.

In the middle of the night--or else to me, lying awake, it seemed so--there was a knocking at our hall door. I slept on the ground flat,in a little room opposite the parlour. Ere I could well collect mythoughts, I saw my father pass, fully dressed, with a light in hishand. And, man of peace though he was, I was very sure I saw in theother--something which always lay near his strong box, at his bed'shead at night. Because ten years ago a large sum had been stolenfrom him, and the burglar had gone free of punishment. The lawrefused to receive Abel Fletcher's testimony--he was "only a Quaker."

The knocking grew louder, as if the person had no time to hesitate atmaking a noise. "Who's there?" called out my father; and at theanswer he opened the front door, first shutting mine.

A minute afterwards I heard some one in my room. "Phineas, are youhere?--don't be frightened."

I was not--as soon as his voice reached me, John's own familiarvoice. "It's something about the tan-yard?"

"Yes; the waters are rising, and I have come to fetch your father; hemay save a good deal yet. I am ready, sir"--in answer to a loudcall. "Now, Phineas, lie you down again, the night's bitter cold.Don't stir--you'll promise?--I'll see after your father."

They went out of the house together, and did not return the wholenight.

That night, February 5, 1795, was one long remembered at Norton Bury.Bridges were destroyed--boats carried away--houses inundated, orsapped at their foundations. The loss of life was small, but that ofproperty was very great. Six hours did the work of ruin, and thenthe flood began to turn.

It was a long waiting until they came home--my father and John. Atdaybreak I saw them standing on the doorstep. A blessed sight!

"O father! my dear father!" and I drew him in, holding fast hishands--faster and closer than I had done since I was a child. He didnot repel me.

"Thee'rt up early, and it's a cold morning for thee, my son. Go backto the fire."

His voice was gentle; his ruddy countenance pale; two strange thingsin Abel Fletcher.

"Father, tell me what has befallen thee?"

"Nothing, my son, save that the Giver of all worldly goods has seenfit to take back a portion of mine. I, like many another in thistown, am poorer by some thousands than I went to bed last night."

He sat down. I knew he loved his money, for it had been hardlyearned. I had not thought he would have borne its loss so quietly.

"Father, never mind; it might have been worse."

"Of a surety. I should have lost everything I had in the world--savefor--Where is the lad? What art thee standing outside for? Come in,John, and shut the door."

John obeyed, though without advancing. He was cold and wet. Iwanted him to sit down by the fireside.

"Ay! do, lad," said my father, kindly.

John came.

I stood between the two--afraid to ask what they had undergone; butsure, from the old man's grave face, and the lad's bright one--flushed all over with that excitement of danger so delicious to theyoung--that the peril had not been small.

"Jael," cried my father, rousing himself, "give us some breakfast;the lad and me--we have had a hard night's work together."

Jael brought the mug of ale and the bread and cheese; but either didnot or could not notice that the meal had been ordered for more thanone.

"Another plate," said my father, sharply.

"The lad can go into the kitchen, Abel Fletcher: his breakfast iswaiting there."

My father winced--even her master was sometimes rather afraid ofJael. But conscience or his will conquered.

"Woman, do as I desired. Bring another plate, and another mug ofale."

And so, to Jael's great wrath, and to my great joy, John Halifax wasbidden, and sat down to the same board as his master. The fact madean ineffaceable impression on our household.

After breakfast, as we sat by the fire, in the pale haze of thatFebruary morning, my father, contrary to his wont, explained to meall his losses; and how, but for the timely warning he had received,the flood might have nearly ruined him.

"So it was well John came," I said, half afraid to say more.

"Ay, and the lad has been useful, too: it is an old head on youngshoulders."

John looked very proud of this praise, though it was grimly given.But directly after it some ill or suspicious thought seemed to comeinto Abel Fletcher's mind.

John coloured violently; the quick young blood was always readyenough to rise in his face. It spoke ill for him with my father.

"Answer. I will not be hard upon thee--to-night, at least."

"As you like, Abel Fletcher," answered the boy, sturdily. "I wasdoing no harm. I was in the tan-yard."

"Thy business there?"

"None at all. I was with the men--they were watching, and had acandle; and I wanted to sit up, and had no light."

"What didst thee want to sit up for?" pursued my father, keen andsharp as a ferret at a field-rat's hole, or a barrister hunting awitness in those courts of law that were never used by, though oftenused against, us Quakers.

John hesitated, and again his painful, falsely-accusing blushes triedhim sore. "Sir, I'll tell you; it's no disgrace. Though I'm such abig fellow I can't write; and your son was good enough to try andteach me. I was afraid of forgetting the letters; so I tried to makethem all over again, with a bit of chalk, on the bark-shed wall. Itdid nobody any harm that I know of."

The boy's tone, even though it was rather quick and angry, won noreproof. At last my father said gently enough--

"Is that all, lad?"

"Yes."

Again Abel Fletcher fell into a brown study. We two lads talkedsoftly to each other--afraid to interrupt. He smoked through a wholepipe--his great and almost his only luxury, and then again calledout--

He stood before his master, cap in hand, with an honest manlinesspleasant to see. Any master might have been proud of such a servant--any father of such a son. My poor father--no, he did not once lookfrom John Halifax to me. He would not have owned for the world thathalf-smothered sigh, or murmured because Heaven had kept back fromhim--as, Heaven knows why, it often does from us all!--the one desireof the heart.

"John Halifax, thee hast been of great service to me this night.What reward shall I give thee?"

And instinctively his hand dived down into his pocket. John turnedaway.

"Thank you--I'd rather not. It is quite enough reward that I havebeen useful to my master, and that he acknowledges it."

My father thought a minute, and then offered his hand. "Thee'rt inthe right, lad. I am very much obliged to thee, and I will notforget it."

And John--blushing brightly once more--went away, looking as proud asan emperor, and as happy as a poor man with a bag of gold.

"Is there nothing thou canst think of, Phineas, that would pleasurethe lad?" said my father, after we had been talking some time--thoughnot about John.

I had thought of something--something I had long desired, but whichseemed then all but an impossibility. Even now it was with somedoubt and hesitation that I made the suggestion that he should spendevery Sunday at our house.

"Nonsense!--thee know'st nought of Norton Bury lads. He would notcare. He had rather lounge about all First-day at street cornerswith his acquaintance."

"John has none, father. He knows nobody--cares for nobody--but me.Do let him come."

"We'll see about it."

My father never broke or retracted his word. So after that JohnHalifax came to us every Sunday; and for one day of the week, atleast, was received in his master's household as our equal and myfriend.

CHAPTER V

Summers and winters slipped by lazily enough, as the years seemedalways to crawl round at Norton Bury. How things went in the outsideworld I little knew or cared. My father lived his life, mechanicaland steady as clock-work, and we two, John Halifax and PhineasFletcher, lived our lives--the one so active and busy, the other souseless and dull. Neither of us counted the days, nor lookedbackwards or forwards.

One June morning I woke to the consciousness that I was twenty yearsold, and that John Halifax was--a man: the difference between usbeing precisely as I have expressed it.

Our birthdays fell within a week of each other, and it was inremembering his--the one which advanced him to the dignity ofeighteen--that I called to mind my own. I say, "advanced him to thedignity"--but in truth that is an idle speech; for any dignity whichthe maturity of eighteen may be supposed to confer he had already inpossession. Manhood had come to him, both in character anddemeanour, not as it comes to most young lads, an eagerly-desired andpresumptuously-asserted claim, but as a rightful inheritance, to bereceived humbly, and worn simply and naturally. So naturally, that Inever seemed to think of him as anything but a boy, until this oneJune Sunday, when, as before stated, I myself became twenty yearsold.

I was talking over that last fact, in a rather dreamy mood, as he andI sat in our long-familiar summer seat, the clematis arbour by thegarden wall.

"It seems very strange, John, but so it is--I am actually twenty."

"Well, and what of that?"

I sat looking down into the river, which flowed on, as my years wereflowing, monotonous, dark, and slow,--as they must flow on for ever.John asked me what I was thinking of.

"Of myself: what a fine specimen of the noble genus homo I am."

I spoke bitterly, but John knew how to meet that mood. Very patienthe was with it and with every ill mood of mine. And I was grateful,with that deep gratitude we feel to those who bear with us, andforgive us, and laugh at us, and correct us,--all alike for love.

"Self-investigation is good on birthdays. Phineas, here goes for acatalogue of your qualities, internal and external."

"John, don't be foolish."

"I will, if I like; though perhaps not quite so foolish as some otherpeople; so listen:--'Imprimis,' as saith Shakspeare--Imprimis,height, full five feet four; a stature historically appertaining togreat men, including Alexander of Macedon and the First Consul."

"Oh, oh!" said I, reproachfully; for this was our chief bone ofcontention--I hating, he rather admiring, the great ogre of the day,Napoleon Bonaparte.

"Imprimis, of a slight, delicate person, but not lame as once was."

"No, thank God!"

"Thin, rather-"

"Very--a mere skeleton!"

"Face elongated and pale-"

"Sallow, John, decidedly sallow."

"Be it so, sallow. Big eyes, much given to observation, which meanshard staring. Take them off me, Phineas, or I'll not lie on thegrass a minute longer. Thank you. To return: Imprimis and finis(I'm grand at Latin now, you see)--long hair, which, since the powdertax, has resumed its original blackness, and is--any young damselwould say, only we count not a single one among our acquaintance--exceedingly bewitching."

I smiled, feeling myself colour a little too, weak invalid as I was.I was, nevertheless, twenty years old; and although Jael and Sallywere the only specimens of the other sex which had risen on myhorizon, yet once or twice, since I had read Shakspeare, I had had aboy's lovely dreams of the divinity of womanhood. They began, andended--mere dreams. Soon dawned the bare, hard truth, that mycharacter was too feeble and womanish to be likely to win any woman'sreverence or love. Or, even had this been possible, one sickly as Iwas, stricken with hereditary disease, ought never to seek toperpetuate it by marriage. I therefore put from me, at once and forever, every feeling of that kind; and during my whole life--I thankGod!--have never faltered in my resolution. Friendship was given mefor love--duty for happiness. So best, and I was satisfied.

This conviction, and the struggle succeeding it--for, though brief,it was but natural that it should have been a hard struggle--was theonly secret that I had kept from John. It had happened some monthsnow, and was quite over and gone, so that I could smile at his fun,and shake at him my "bewitching" black locks, calling him a foolishboy. And while I said it, the notion slowly dawning during the longgaze he had complained of, forced itself upon me, clear as daylight,that he was not a "boy" any longer.

"Now let me turn the tables. How old are YOU, John?"

"You know. Eighteen next week."

"And how tall?"

"Five feet eleven inches and a half." And, rising, he exhibited toits full advantage that very creditable altitude, more tall perhapsthan graceful, at present; since, like most youths, he did not as yetquite know what to do with his legs and arms. But he was--

I cannot describe what he was. I could not then. I only rememberthat when I looked at him, and began jocularly "Imprimis," my heartcame up into my throat and choked me.

It was almost with sadness that I said, "Ah! David, you are quite ayoung man now."

He smiled, of course only with pleasure, looking forward to the newworld into which he was going forth; the world into which, as I knewwell, I could never follow him.

"I am glad I look rather old for my years," said he, when, after apause, he had again flung himself down on the grass. "It tells wellin the tan-yard. People would be slow to trust a clerk who looked amere boy. Still, your father trusts me."

"He does, indeed. You need never have any doubt of that. It wasonly yesterday he said to me that now he was no longer dissatisfiedwith your working at all sorts of studies, in leisure hours, since itmade you none the worse man of business."

"No, I hope not, or I should be much ashamed. It would not be doingmy duty to myself any more than to my master, if I shirked his workfor my own. I am glad he does not complain now, Phineas."

"On the contrary; I think he intends to give you a rise thisMidsummer. But oh!" I cried, recurring to a thought which wouldoften come when I looked at the lad, though he always combated it sostrongly, that I often owned my prejudices were unjust: "how I wishyou were something better than a clerk in a tan-yard. I have a plan,John."

But what that plan was, was fated to remain unrevealed. Jael came tous in the garden, looking very serious. She had been summoned, Iknew, to a long conference with her master the day before--thesubject of which she would not tell me, though she acknowledged itconcerned myself. Ever since she had followed me about, very softly,for her, and called me more than once, as when I was a child, "mydear." She now came with half-dolorous, half-angry looks, to summonme to an interview with my father and Doctor Jessop.

I caught her parting mutterings, as she marched behind me: "Kill orcure, indeed,"--"No more fit than a baby,"--"Abel Fletcher be cleanmad,"--"Hope Thomas Jessop will speak out plain, and tell him so,"and the like. From these, and from her strange fit of tenderness, Iguessed what was looming in the distance--a future which my fatherconstantly held in terrorem over me, though successive illness hadkept it in abeyance. Alas! I knew that my poor father's hopes andplans were vain! I went into his presence with a heavy heart.

There is no need to detail that interview. Enough, that after it heset aside for ever his last lingering hope of having a son able toassist, and finally succeed him in his business, and that I set asideevery dream of growing up to be a help and comfort to my father. Itcost something on both our parts; but after that day's discussion wetacitly covered over the pain, and referred to it no more.

I came back into the garden, and told John Halifax all. He listenedwith his hand on my shoulder, and his grave, sweet look--dearersympathy than any words! Though he added thereto a few, in his ownwise way; then he and I, also, drew the curtain over an inevitablegrief, and laid it in the peaceful chamber of silence.

When my father, Dr. Jessop, John Halifax, and I, met at dinner, thesubject had passed into seeming oblivion, and was never afterwardsrevived.

But dinner being over, and the chatty little doctor gone, while AbelFletcher sat mutely smoking his pipe, and we two at the windowmaintained that respectful and decorous silence which in my youngdays was rigidly exacted by elders and superiors, I noticed myfather's eyes frequently resting, with keen observance, upon JohnHalifax. Could it be that there had recurred to him a hint of mine,given faintly that morning, as faintly as if it had only just enteredmy mind, instead of having for months continually dwelt there, untila fitting moment should arrive?--Could it be that this hint, which hehad indignantly scouted at the time, was germinating in his acutebrain, and might bear fruit in future days? I hoped so--I earnestlyprayed so. And to that end I took no notice, but let it silentlygrow.

The June evening came and went. The service-bell rang out andceased. First, deep shadows, and then a bright star, appeared overthe Abbey-tower. We watched it from the garden, where, Sunday afterSunday, in fine weather, we used to lounge, and talk over all mannerof things in heaven and in earth, chiefly ending with the former, ason Sunday nights, with stars over our head, was natural and fit weshould do.

"Phineas," said John, sitting on the grass with his hands upon hisknees, and the one star, I think it was Jupiter, shining down intohis eyes, deepening them into that peculiar look, worth any so-called"handsome eyes;"--"Phineas, I wonder how soon we shall have to riseup from this quiet, easy life, and fight our battles in the world?Also, I wonder if we are ready for it?"

"I think you are."

"I don't know. I'm not clear how far I could resist doing anythingwrong, if it were pleasant. So many wrong things are pleasant--justnow, instead of rising to-morrow, and going into the little darkcounting-house, and scratching paper from eight till six, shouldn't Ilike to break away!--dash out into the world, take to all sorts ofwild freaks, do all sorts of grand things, and perhaps never comeback to the tanning any more."

"Never any more?"

"No! no! I spoke hastily. I did not mean I ever should do such awrong thing; but merely that I sometimes feel the wish to do it. Ican't help it; it's my Apollyon that I have to fight with--everybodykeeps a private Apollyon, I fancy. Now, Phineas, be content;Apollyon is beaten down."

He rose up, but I thought that, in the red glow of the twilight, helooked rather pale. He stretched his hand to help me up from thegrass. We went into the house together, silently.

After supper, when the chimes struck half-past nine, John prepared toleave as usual. He went to bid good-night to my father, who wassitting meditatively over the fireless hearth-place, sometimes pokingthe great bow-pot of fennel and asparagus, as in winter he did thecoals: an instance of obliviousness, which, in my sensible and acutefather, argued very deep cogitation on some subject or other.

"Not much, unless the Russian hides should come in; I cleared off theweek's accounts last night, as usual."

"Ay, to-morrow I shall look over all thy books and see how theestand'st, and what further work thou art fit for. Therefore, take aday's holiday, if thee likes."

We thanked him warmly. "There, John," whispered I, "you may haveyour wish, and run wild to-morrow."

He said, "the wish had gone out of him." So we planned a sweet lazyday under the Midsummer sky, in some fields about a mile off, calledthe Vineyards.

The morning came, and we took our way thither, under the Abbey walls,and along a lane, shaded on one side by the "willows in thewater-courses." We came out in those quiet hay-fields, which,tradition says, had once grown wine for the rosy monks close by, andhistory avers, were afterwards watered by a darker stream than theblood of grapes. The Vineyards had been a battle-field; and underthe long wavy grass, and the roots of the wild apple trees, sleptmany a Yorkist and Lancastrian. Sometimes an unusually deep furrowturned out a white bone--but more often the relics were undisturbed,and the meadows used as pastures or hay-fields.

John and I lay down on some wind-rows, and sunned ourselves in thewarm and delicious air. How beautiful everything was! so very still!with the Abbey-tower--always the most picturesque point in our NortonBury views--showing so near, that it almost seemed to rise up out ofthe fields and hedge-rows.

"Well, David," and I turned to the long, lazy figure beside me, whichhad considerably flattened the hay, "are you satisfied?"

"Ay."

Thus we lounged out all the summer morning, recurring to a few of theinfinitude of subjects we used to compare notes upon; though we wereneither of us given to wordiness, and never talked but when we hadsomething to say. Often--as on this day--we sat for hours in apleasant dreaminess, scarcely exchanging a word; nevertheless, Icould generally track John's thoughts, as they went wandering on, ay,as clearly as one might track a stream through a wood; sometimes--like to-day--I failed.

In the afternoon, when we had finished our bread and cheese--eatenslowly and with graceful dignity, in order to make dinner a moreimportant and lengthy affair--he said abruptly--

"Phineas, don't you think this field is rather dull? Shall we gosomewhere else? not if it tires you, though."

I protested the contrary, my health being much above the average thissummer. But just as we were quitting the field we met two ratherodd-looking persons entering it, young-old persons they seemed, whomight own to any age or any occupation. Their dress, especially thatof the younger, amused us by its queer mixture of fashionableness andhomeliness, such as grey ribbed stockings and shining paste shoe-buckles, rusty velvet small-clothes and a coatee of blue cloth. Butthe wearer carried off this anomalous costume with an easy,condescending air, full of pleasantness, humour, and grace.

"Sir," said he, approaching John Halifax with a bow that I feel surethe "first gentleman of his day," as loyal folk then entitled thePrince Regent, could not have surpassed--"Sir, will you favour me byinforming us how far it is to Coltham?"

"Ten miles, and the stage will pass here in three hours."

"Thank you; at present I have little to do with the--at least withTHAT stage. Young gentlemen, excuse our continuing our dessert, infact, I may say our dinner. Are you connoisseurs in turnips?"

He offered us--with a polite gesture--one of the "swedes" he wasmunching. I declined; but John, out of a deeper delicacy than Icould boast, accepted it.

"One might dine worse," he said; "I have done, sometimes."

"It was a whim of mine, sir. But I am not the first remarkableperson who has eaten turnips in your Norton Bury fields--ay, andturned field-preacher afterwards--the celebrated John Philip--"

Here the elder and less agreeable of the two wayfarers interposedwith a nudge, indicating silence.

"My companion is right, sir," he continued. "I will not betray ourillustrious friend by mentioning his surname; he is a great man now,and might not wish it generally known that he had dined off turnips.May I give you instead my own humble name?"

He gave it me; but I, Phineas Fletcher, shall copy his reticence, andnot indulge the world therewith. It was a name wholly out of mysphere, both then and now; but I know it has since risen into noteamong the people of the world. I believe, too, its owner has carriedup to the topmost height of celebrity always the gay, gentlemanlyspirit and kindly heart which he showed when sitting with us andeating swedes. Still, I will not mention his surname--I will onlycall him "Mr. Charles."

"Now, having satisfactorily 'munched, and munched, and munched,' likethe sailor's wife who had chestnuts in her lap--are you acquaintedwith my friend, Mr. William Shakspeare, young gentleman?--I must tryto fulfil the other duties of existence. You said the Coltham mailpassed here in three hours? Very well. I have the honour of wishingyou a very good day, Mr.--"

"Halifax."

"And yours?"

"Fletcher."

"Any connection with him who went partnership with the worthyBeaumont?"

"My father has no partner, sir," said I. But John, whose reading hadlately surpassed mine, and whom nothing ever puzzled, explained thatI came from the same old stock as the brothers Phineas and GilesFletcher. Upon which Mr. Charles, who till now had somewhatoverlooked me, took off his hat, and congratulated me on myillustrious descent.

"That man has evidently seen a good deal of the world," said John,smiling; "I wonder what the world is like!"

"Did you not see something of it as a child?"

"Only the worst and lowest side; not the one I want to see now. Whatbusiness do you think that Mr. Charles is? A clever man, anyhow; Ishould like to see him again."

"So should I."

Thus talking at intervals and speculating upon our new acquaintance,we strolled along till we came to a spot called by the countrypeople, "The Bloody Meadow," from being, like several other places inthe neighbourhood, the scene of one of those terrible slaughterschronicled in the wars of the Roses. It was a sloping field, throughthe middle of which ran a little stream down to the meadow's end,where, fringed and hidden by a plantation of trees, the Avon flowed.Here, too, in all directions, the hay-fields lay, either in greenswathes, or tedded, or in the luxuriously-scented quiles. The lanewas quite populous with waggons and hay-makers--the men in theircorduroys and blue hose--the women in their trim jackets and brightcalamanco petticoats. There were more women than men, by far, forthe flower of the peasant youth of England had been drafted off tofight against "Bonyparty." Still hay-time was a glorious season,when half our little town turned out and made holiday in thesunshine.

"I think we will go to a quieter place, John. There seems a crowddown in the meadow; and who is that man standing on the hay-cart, onthe other side the stream?"

"Don't you remember the bright blue coat? 'Tis Mr. Charles. Howhe's talking and gesticulating! What can he be at?"

Without more ado John leaped the low hedge, and ran down the slope ofthe Bloody Meadow. I followed less quickly.

There, of a surety, stood our new friend, on one of the simple-fashioned hay-carts that we used about Norton Bury, a low frameworkon wheels, with a pole stuck at either of the four corners. He wasbare-headed, and his hair hung in graceful curls, well powdered. Ionly hope he had honestly paid the tax, which we were all thenexclaiming against--so fondly does custom cling to deformity.Despite the powder, the blue coat, and the shabby velvet breeches,Mr. Charles was a very handsome and striking-looking man. No wonderthe poor hay-makers had collected from all parts to hear himharangue.

What was he haranguing upon? Could it be, that like his friend,"John Philip," whoever that personage might be, his vocation was thatof a field preacher? It seemed like it, especially judging from thesanctified demeanour of the elder and inferior person who accompaniedhim; and who sat in the front of the cart, and folded his hands andgroaned, after the most approved fashion of a methodistical"revival."

We listened, expecting every minute to be disgusted and shocked: butno! I must say this for Mr. Charles, that in no way did he trespassthe bounds of reverence and decorum. His harangue, though given as asermon, was strictly and simply a moral essay, such as might haveemanated from any professor's chair. In fact, as I afterwardslearnt, he had given for his text one which the simple rusticsreceived in all respect, as coming from a higher and holier volumethan Shakspeare--

"Mercy is twice blessed: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest."

And on that text did he dilate; gradually warming with his subject,till his gestures--which at first had seemed burthened with a queerconstraint, that now and then resulted in an irrepressible twitch ofthe corners of his flexible mouth--became those of a man beguiledinto real earnestness. We of Norton Bury had never heard sucheloquence.

"Who CAN he be, John? Isn't it wonderful?"

But John never heard me. His whole attention was riveted on thespeaker. Such oratory--a compound of graceful action, polishedlanguage, and brilliant imagination, came to him as a positiverevelation, a revelation from the world of intellect, the world whichhe longed after with all the ardour of youth.

What that harangue would have seemed like, could we have heard itwith maturer ears, I know not; but at eighteen and twenty itliterally dazzled us. No wonder it affected the rest of theaudience. Feeble men, leaning on forks and rakes, shook their oldheads sagely, as if they understood it all. And when the speakeralluded to the horrors of war--a subject which then came so bitterlyhome to every heart in Britain--many women melted into sobs andtears. At last, when the orator himself, moved by the pictures hehad conjured up, paused suddenly, quite exhausted, and asked for aslight contribution "to help a deed of charity," there was a generalrush towards him.

"No--no, my good people," said Mr. Charles, recovering his naturalmanner, though a little clouded, I thought, by a faint shade ofremorse; "no, I will not take from any one more than a penny; andthen only if they are quite sure they can spare it. Thank you, myworthy man. Thanks, my bonny young lass--I hope your sweetheart willsoon be back from the wars. Thank you all, my 'very worthy andapproved good masters,' and a fair harvest to you!"

He bowed them away, in a dignified and graceful manner, stillstanding on the hay-cart. The honest folk trooped off, having nomore time to waste, and left the field in possession of Mr. Charles,his co-mate, and ourselves; whom I do not think he had as yetnoticed.

He descended from the cart. His companion burst into roars oflaughter; but Charles looked grave.

"Poor, honest souls!" said he, wiping his brows--I am not sure thatit was only his brows--"Hang me if I'll be at this trick again,Yates."

"It was a trick then, sir," said John, advancing. "I am sorry forit."

"So am I, young man," returned the other, no way disconcerted;indeed, he seemed a person whose frank temper nothing coulddisconcert. "But starvation is--excuse me,--unpleasant; andnecessity has no law. It is of vital consequence that I should reachColtham to-night; and after walking twenty miles one cannot easilywalk ten more, and afterwards appear as Macbeth to an admiringaudience."

"You are an actor?"

"I am, please your worship--

'A poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is seen no more.'"

There was inexpressible pathos in his tone, and his fine face lookedthin and worn--it did not take much to soften both John's feelingsand mine towards the "poor player." Besides, we had lately beenstudying Shakspeare, who for the first time of reading generallysends all young people tragedy-mad.

"You acted well to-day," said John; "all the folk here took you for amethodist preacher."

"Yet I never meddled with theology--only common morality. You cannotsay I did."

John thought a moment, and then answered--

"No. But what put the scheme into your head?"

"The fact that, under a like necessity, the same amusing play wasplayed out here years ago, as I told you, by John Philip--no, I willnot conceal his name, the greatest actor and the truest gentleman ourEnglish stage has ever seen--John Philip Kemble."

And he raised his hat with sincere reverence. We too had heard--atleast John had--of this wonderful man.

I saw the fascination of Mr. Charles's society was strongly upon him.It was no wonder. More brilliant, more versatile talent I never saw.He turned "from grave to gay, from lively to severe"--appearing inall phases like the gentleman, the scholar, and the man of the world.And neither John nor I had ever met any one of these characters, allso irresistibly alluring at our age.

I say OUR, because though I followed where he led, I always did it ofmy own will likewise.

The afternoon began to wane, while we, with our two companions, yetsat talking by the brook-side. Mr. Charles had washed his face, andhis travel-sore, blistered feet, and we had induced him, and the manhe called Yates, to share our remnants of bread and cheese.

"Now," he said, starting up, "I am ready to do battle again, evenwith the Thane of Fife--who, to-night, is one Johnson, a fellow ofsix feet and twelve stone. What is the hour, Mr. Halifax?"

"Mr. Halifax"--(I felt pleased to hear him for the first time soentitled)--had, unfortunately, no watch among his worldlypossessions, and candidly owned the fact. But he made a near guessby calculating the position of his unfailing time-piece, the sun.--Itwas four o'clock.

"Then I must go. Will you not retract, young gentlemen? Surely youwould not lose such a rare treat as 'Macbeth,' with--I will not saymy humble self--but with that divine Siddons. Such a woman!Shakspeare himself might lean out of Elysium to watch her. You willjoin us?"

John made a silent, dolorous negative; as he had done once or twicebefore, when the actor urged us to accompany him to Coltham for a fewhours only--we might be back by midnight, easily.

"What do you think, Phineas?" said John, when we stood in thehigh-road, waiting for the coach; "I have money--and--we have solittle pleasure--we would send word to your father. Do you think itwould be wrong?"

I could not say; and to this minute, viewing the question nakedly ina strict and moral sense, I cannot say either whether or no it was anabsolute crime; therefore, being accustomed to read my wrong or rightin "David's" eyes, I remained perfectly passive.

We waited by the hedge-side for several minutes--Mr. Charles ceasedhis urging, half in dudgeon, save that he was too pleasant a manreally to take offence at anything. His conversation was chieflydirected to me. John took no part therein, but strolled aboutplucking at the hedge.

When the stage appeared down the winding of the road I was utterlyignorant of what he meant us to do, or if he had any definite purposeat all.

It came--the coachman was hailed. Mr. Charles shook hands with usand mounted--paying his own fare and that of Yates with their handfulof charity-pennies, which caused a few minutes' delay in counting,and a great deal of good-humoured joking, as good-humouredly borne.

Meanwhile, John put his two hands on my shoulders, and looked hardinto my face--his was slightly flushed and excited, I thought.

"Phineas, are you tired?"

"Not at all."

"Do you feel strong enough to go to Coltham? Would it do you noharm? Would you LIKE to go?"

To all these hurried questions I answered with as hurried anaffirmative. It was sufficient to me that he evidently liked to go.

"It is only for once--your father would not grudge us the pleasure,and he is too busy to be out of the tan-yard before midnight. Wewill be home soon after then, if I carry you on my back all the tenmiles. Come, mount, we'll go."

"Bravo!" cried Mr. Charles, and leaned over to help me up the coach'sside. John followed, and the crisis was past.

But I noticed that for several miles he hardly spoke one word.

CHAPTER VI

Near as we lived to Coltham, I had only been there once in my life;but John Halifax knew the town pretty well, having latterly inaddition to his clerkship been employed by my father in going aboutthe neighbourhood buying bark. I was amused when the coach stoppedat an inn, which bore the ominous sign of the "Fleece," to see howwell accustomed he seemed to be to the ways of the place. Hedeported himself with perfect self-possession; the waiter served himrespectfully. He had evidently taken his position in the world--atleast, our little world--he was no longer a boy, but a man. I wasglad to see it; leaving everything in his hands, I lay down where heplaced me in the inn parlour, and watched him giving his orders andwalking about. Sometimes I thought his eyes were restless andunquiet, but his manner was as composed as usual.

Mr. Charles had left us, appointing a meeting at Coffee-house Yard,where the theatre then was.

"A poor barn-like place, I believe," said John, stopping in his walkup and down the room to place my cushions more easy; "they shouldbuild a new one, now Coltham is growing up into such a fashionabletown. I wish I could take you to see the "Well-walk," with all thefine people promenading. But you must rest, Phineas."

I consented, being indeed rather weary.

"You will like to see Mrs. Siddons, whom we have so often talkedabout? She is not young now, Mr. Charles says, but magnificentstill. She first came out in this same theatre more than twentyyears ago. Yates saw her. I wonder, Phineas, if your father everdid."

"Oh, no my father would not enter a play-house for the world."

"What!"

"Nay, John, you need not look so troubled. You know he did not bringme up in the Society, and its restrictions are not binding upon me."

"True, true." And he resumed his walk, but not his cheerfulness."If it were myself alone, now, of course what I myself hold to be alawful pleasure I have a right to enjoy; or, if not, being yet a ladand under a master--well, I will bear the consequences," added he,rather proudly; "but to share them--Phineas," turning suddenly to me,"would you like to go home?--I'll take you."

I protested earnestly against any such thing; told him I was sure wewere doing nothing wrong--which was, indeed, my belief; entreated himto be merry and enjoy himself, and succeeded so well, that in a fewminutes we had started in a flutter of gaiety and excitement forCoffee-house Yard.

It was a poor place--little better than a barn, as Mr. Charles hadsaid--built in a lane leading out of the principal street. This lanewas almost blocked up with play-goers of all ranks and in all sortsof equipages, from the coach-and-six to the sedan-chair, mingled witha motley crowd on foot, all jostling, fighting, and screaming, tillthe place became a complete bear-garden.

"Oh, John! take care!" and I clung to his arm.

"Never mind! I'm big enough and strong enough for any crowd. Holdon, Phineas." If I had been a woman, and the woman that he loved, hecould not have been more tender over my weakness. The physicalweakness--which, however humiliating to myself, and doubtlesscontemptible in most men's eyes--was yet dealt by the hand of Heaven,and, as such, regarded by John only with compassion.

The crowd grew denser and more formidable. I looked beyond it, uptowards the low hills that rose in various directions round the town;how green and quiet they were, in the still June evening! I onlywished we were safe back again at Norton Bury.

But now there came a slight swaying in the crowd, as a sedan-chairwas borne through--or attempted to be--for the effort failed. Therewas a scuffle, one of the bearers was knocked down and hurt. Somecried "shame!" others seemed to think this incident only added to thefrolic. At last, in the midst of the confusion, a lady put her headout of the sedan and gazed around her.

It was a remarkable countenance; once seen, you could never forgetit. Pale, rather large and hard in outline, an aquiline nose--full,passionate, yet sensitive lips--and very dark eyes. She spoke, andthe voice belonged naturally to such a face. "Good people, let mepass--I am Sarah Siddons."

The crowd divided instantaneously, and in moving set up a cheer thatmust have rang through all the town. There was a minute's pause,while she bowed and smiled--such a smile!--and then the sedan curtainclosed.

"Now's the time--only hold fast to me!" whispered John, as he sprangforward, dragging me after him. In another second he had caught upthe pole dropped by the man who was hurt; and before I well knew whatwe were about we both stood safe inside the entrance of the theatre.

Mrs. Siddons stepped out, and turned to pay her bearers--a mostsimple action--but so elevated in the doing that even it, I thought,could not bring her to the level of common humanity. The tall,cloaked, and hooded figure, and the tones that issued thence, madeher, even in that narrow passage, under the one flaringtallow-candle, a veritable Queen of tragedy--at least so she seemedto us two.

The one man was paid--over-paid, apparently, from his thankfulness--and she turned to John Halifax.

"I regret, young man, that you should have had so much trouble. Hereis some requital."

He took the money, selected from it one silver coin, and returned therest.

"I will keep this, madam, if you please, as a memento that I once hadthe honour of being useful to Mrs. Siddons."

She looked at him keenly, out of her wonderful dark eyes, thencurtsied with grave dignity--"I thank you, sir," she said, and passedon.

A few minutes after some underling of the theatre found us out andbrought us, "by Mrs. Siddons' desire," to the best places the housecould afford.

It was a glorious night. At this distance of time, when I look backupon it my old blood leaps and burns. I repeat, it was a gloriousnight!

Before the curtain rose we had time to glance about us on that scene,to both entirely new--the inside of a theatre. Shabby and small asthe place was, it was filled with all the beau monde of Coltham,which then, patronized by royalty, rivalled even Bath in its fashionand folly. Such a dazzle of diamonds and spangled turbans andPrince-of-Wales' plumes. Such an odd mingling of costume, which wasthen in a transition state, the old ladies clinging tenaciously tothe stately silken petticoats and long bodices, surmounted by theprim and decent bouffantes, while the younger belles had begun toflaunt in the French fashions of flimsy muslins, shortwaisted--narrow-skirted. These we had already heard Jael furiously inveighingagainst: for Jael, Quakeress as she was, could not quite smother heroriginal propensity towards the decoration of "the flesh," andbetrayed a suppressed but profound interest in the same.

John and I quite agreed with her, that it was painful to see gentleEnglish girls clad, or rather un-clad, after the fashion of ourenemies across the Channel; now, unhappy nation! sunk to zero inpolitics, religion, and morals--where high-bred ladies went aboutdressed as heathen goddesses, with bare arms and bare sandalled feet,gaining none of the pure simplicity of the ancient world, and losingall the decorous dignity of our modern times.

We two--who had all a boy's mysterious reverence for womanhood in itsmost ideal, most beautiful form, and who, I believe, were, in ourignorance, expecting to behold in every woman an Imogen, a Juliet, ora Desdemona--felt no particular attraction towards the ungracefullyattired, flaunting, simpering belles of Coltham.

But--the play began.

I am not going to follow it: all the world has heard of the LadyMacbeth of Mrs. Siddons. This, the first and last play I everwitnessed, stands out to my memory, after more than half a century,as clear as on that night. Still I can see her in her first scene,"reading a letter"--that wondrous woman, who, in spite of her modernblack velvet and point lace, did not act, but WAS, Lady Macbeth:still I hear the awe-struck, questioning, weird-like tone, that sentan involuntary shudder through the house, as if supernatural thingswere abroad--"THEY MADE THEMSELVES--AIR!" And still there quiversthrough the silence that piteous cry of a strong heart broken--"ALLTHE PERFUMES OF ARABIA WILL NEVER SWEETEN THIS LITTLE HAND!"

Well, she is gone, like the brief three hours when we hung on herevery breath, as if it could stay even the wheels of time. But theyhave whirled on--whirled her away with them into the infinite, andinto earthly oblivion! People tell me that a new generation onlysmiles at the traditional glory of Sarah Siddons. They never sawher. For me, I shall go down to the grave worshipping her still.

Of him whom I call Mr. Charles I have little to say. John and I bothsmiled when we saw his fine, frank face and manly bearing subduedinto that poor, whining, sentimental craven, the stage Macbeth. YetI believe he acted it well. But we irresistibly associated his ideawith that of turnip munching and hay-cart oratory. And when, duringthe first colloquy of Banquo with the witches, Macbeth took theopportunity of winking privately at us over the foot-lights, all theparaphernalia of the stage failed to make the murderous Thane ofCawdor aught else than our humorous and good-natured Mr. Charles. Inever saw him after that night. He is still living--may his old agehave been as peaceful as his youth was kind and gay!

The play ended. There was some buffoonery still to come, but wewould not stay for that. We staggered, half-blind and dazzled, bothin eyes and brain, out into the dark streets, John almost carryingme. Then we paused, and leaning against a post which was surmountedby one of the half-dozen oil lamps which illumined the town, tried toregain our mental equilibrium.

John was the first to do it. Passing his hand over his brow he baredit to the fresh night-air, and drew a deep, hard breath. He was verypale, I saw.

"John?"

He turned, and laid a hand on my shoulder. "What did you say? Areyou cold?"

"No." He put his arm so as to shield the wind from me, nevertheless.

"Well," said he, after a pause, "we have had our pleasure, and it isover. Now we must go back to the old ways again. I wonder whato'clock it is?"

He was answered by a church clock striking, heard clearly over thesilent town. I counted the strokes--ELEVEN!

Horrified, we looked at one another by the light of the lamp. Untilthis minute we had taken no note of time. Eleven o'clock! Howshould we get home to Norton Bury that night?

For, now the excitement was over, I turned sick and faint; my limbsalmost sank under me.

"What must we do, John?"

"Do! oh! 'tis quite easy. You cannot walk--you shall not walk--wemust hire a gig and drive home. I have enough money--all my month'swages--see!" He felt in his pockets one after the other; hiscountenance grew blank. "Why! where is my money gone to?"

Where, indeed! But that it was gone, and irretrievably--most likelystolen when we were so wedged in the crowd--there could be no mannerof doubt. And I had not a groat. I had little use for money, andrarely carried any.

"Would not somebody trust us?" suggested I.

"I never asked anybody for credit in my life--and for a horse andgig--they'd laugh at me. Still--yes--stay here a minute, and I'lltry."

He came back, though not immediately, and took my arm with a recklesslaugh.

"It's of no use, Phineas--I'm not so respectable as I thought.What's to be done?"

Ay! what indeed! Here we were, two friendless youths, with not apenny in our pockets, and ten miles away from home. How to getthere, and at midnight too, was a very serious question. Weconsulted a minute, and then John said firmly:

"We must make the best of it and start. Every instant is precious.Your father will think we have fallen into some harm. Come, Phineas,I'll help you on."

His strong, cheery voice, added to the necessity of thecircumstances, braced up my nerves. I took hold of his arm, and wemarched on bravely through the shut-up town, and for a mile or twoalong the high-road leading to Norton Bury. There was a cool freshbreeze: and I often think one can walk so much further by night thanby day. For some time, listening to John's talk about the stars--hehad lately added astronomy to the many things he tried to learn--andrecalling with him all that we had heard and seen this day, I hardlyfelt my weariness.

But gradually it grew upon me; my pace lagged slower and slower--eventhe scented air of the midsummer-night imparted no freshness. Johnwound his young arm, strong and firm as iron, round my waist, and wegot on awhile in that way.

"Keep up, Phineas. There's a hayrick near. I'll wrap you in mycoat, and you shall rest there: an hour or two will not matter now--we shall get home by daybreak."

I feebly assented; but it seemed to me that we never should get home--at least I never should. For a short way more, I dragged myself--orrather, was dragged--along; then the stars, the shadowy fields, andthe winding, white high-road mingled and faded from me. I lost allconsciousness.

When I came to myself I was lying by a tiny brook at the roadside, myhead resting on John's knees. He was bathing my forehead: I couldnot see him, but I heard his smothered moan.

"David, don't mind. I shall be well directly."

"Oh! Phineas--Phineas; I thought I had killed you."

He said no more; but I fancied that under cover of the night heyielded to what his manhood might have been ashamed of--yet need not--a few tears.

I tried to rise. There was a faint streak in the east. "Why, it isdaybreak! How far are we from Norton Bury?"

"Not very far. Don't stir a step. I shall carry you."

"Impossible!"

"Nonsense; I have done it for half-a-mile already. Come, mount! Iam not going to have Jonathan's death laid at David's door."

And so, masking command with a jest, he had his way. What strengthsupported him I cannot tell, but he certainly carried me--with manyrests between, and pauses, during which I walked a quarter of a mileor so--the whole way to Norton Bury.

The light broadened and broadened. When we reached my father's door,haggard and miserable, it was in the pale sunshine of a summermorning.

"Thank God!" murmured John, as he set me down at the foot of thesteps. "You are safe at home."

"And you. You will come in--you would not leave me now?"

He thought a moment--then said, "No!"

We looked up doubtfully at the house; there were no watchers there.All the windows were closed, as if the whole peaceful establishmentwere taking its sleep, prior to the early stirring of Norton Buryhouseholds. Even John's loud knocking was some time before it wasanswered.

I was too exhausted to feel much; but I know those five awful minutesseemed interminable. I could not have borne them, save for John'svoice in my ear.

"Courage! I'll bear all the blame. We have committed no absolutesin, and have paid dearly for any folly. Courage!"

At the five minutes' end my father opened the door. He was dressedas usual, looked as usual. Whether he had sat up watching, or hadsuffered any anxiety, I never found out.

He said nothing; merely opened the door, admitted us, and closed itbehind us. But we were certain, from his face, that he knew all. Itwas so; some neighbour driving home from Coltham had taken pains totell Abel Fletcher where he had seen his son--at the very last placea Friend's son ought to be seen--the play-house. We knew that it wasby no means to learn the truth, but to confront us with it, that myfather--reaching the parlour, and opening the shutters that the harddaylight should shame us more and more--asked the stern question--

"Phineas, where hast thee been?"

John answered for me. "At the theatre at Coltham. It was my fault.He went because I wished to go."

"And wherefore didst thee wish to go?"

"Wherefore?" the answer seemed hard to find. "Oh! Mr Fletcher, wereyou never young like me?"

My father made no reply; John gathered courage.

"It was, as I say, all my fault. It might have been wrong--I thinknow that it was--but the temptation was hard. My life here is dull;I long sometimes for a little amusement--a little change."

"Thee shall have it."

That voice, slow and quiet as it was, struck us both dumb.

"And how long hast thee planned this, John Halifax?"

"Not a day--not an hour! it was a sudden freak of mine." (My fathershook his head with contemptuous incredulity.) "Sir!--Abel Fletcher--did I ever tell you a lie? If you will not believe me, believe yourown son. Ask Phineas--No, no, ask him nothing!" And he came ingreat distress to the sofa where I had fallen. "Oh, Phineas! howcruel I have been to you!"

I tried to smile at him, being past speaking--but my father put Johnaside.

"Young man, _I_ can take care of my son. Thee shalt not lead himinto harm's way any more. Go--I have been mistaken in thee!"

If my father had gone into a passion, had accused us, reproached us,and stormed at us with all the ill-language that men of the worlduse! but that quiet, cold, irrevocable, "I have been mistaken inthee!" was ten times worse.

John lifted to him a mute look, from which all pride had ebbed away.

"I repeat, I have been mistaken in thee! Thee seemed a lad to mymind; I trusted thee. This day, by my son's wish, I meant to havebound thee 'prentice to me, and in good time to have taken thee intothe business. Now--"

There was silence. At last John muttered, in a low broken-heartedvoice, "I deserve it all. I can go away. I might perhaps earn myliving elsewhere; shall I?"

Abel Fletcher hesitated, looked at the poor lad before him (oh,David! how unlike to thee), then said, "No--I do not wish that. Atleast, not at present."

I cried out in the joy and relief of my heart. John came over to me,and we clasped hands.

"John, you will not go?"

"No, I will stay to redeem my character with your father. Becontent, Phineas--I won't part with you."

"Young man, thou must," said my father, turning round.

"But--"

"I have said it, Phineas. I accuse him of no dishonesty, no crime,but of weakly yielding, and selfishly causing another to yield, tothe temptation of the world. Therefore, as my clerk I retain him; asmy son's companion--never!"

We felt that "never" was irrevocable.

Yet I tried, blindly and despairingly, to wrestle with it; I might aswell have flung myself against a stone wall.

John stood perfectly silent.

"Don't, Phineas," he whispered at last; "never mind me. Your fatheris right--at least so far as he sees. Let me go--perhaps I may comeback to you some time. If not--"

I moaned out bitter words--I hardly knew what I was saying. Myfather took no notice of them, only went to the door and called Jael.

Then, before the woman came, I had strength enough to bid John go.

"Good-bye--don't forget me, don't!"

"I will not," he said; "and if I live we shall be friends again.Good-bye, Phineas." He was gone.

After that day, though he kept his word, and remained in thetan-yard, and though from time to time I heard of him--alwaysaccidentally,--after that day for two long years I never once saw theface of John Halifax.

CHAPTER VII

It was the year 1800, long known in English households as "the dearyear." The present generation can have no conception of what aterrible time that was--War, Famine, and Tumult stalkinghand-in-hand, and no one to stay them. For between the upper andlower classes there was a great gulf fixed; the rich ground the facesof the poor, the poor hated, yet meanly succumbed to, the rich.Neither had Christianity enough boldly to cross the line ofdemarcation, and prove, the humbler, that they were men,--the higherand wiser, that they were gentlemen.

These troubles, which were everywhere abroad, reached us even in ourquiet town of Norton Bury. For myself, personally, they touched menot, or, at least, only kept fluttering like evil birds outside thedear home-tabernacle, where I and Patience sat, keeping our solemncounsel together--for these two years had with me been very hard.

Though I had to bear so much bodily suffering that I was seldom toldof any worldly cares, still I often fancied things were going illboth within and without our doors. Jael complained in an under-keyof stinted housekeeping, or boasted aloud of her own ingenuity inmaking ends meet: and my father's brow grew continually heavier,graver, sterner; sometimes so stern that I dared not wage, what was,openly or secretly, the quiet but incessant crusade of my existence--the bringing back of John Halifax.

He still remained my father's clerk--nay, I sometimes thought he waseven advancing in duties and trusts, for I heard of his being sentlong journeys up and down England to buy grain--Abel Fletcher havingadded to his tanning business the flour-mill hard by, whose lazywhirr was so familiar to John and me in our boyhood. But of thesejourneys my father never spoke; indeed, he rarely mentioned John atall. However he might employ and even trust him in businessrelations, I knew that in every other way he was inexorable.

And John Halifax was as inexorable as he. No under-hand orclandestine friendship would he admit--no, not even for my sake. Iknew quite well, that until he could walk in openly, honourably,proudly, he never would re-enter my father's doors. Twice only hehad written to me--on my two birthdays--my father himself giving mein silence the unsealed letters. They told me what I already wassure of--that I held, and always should hold, my steadfast place inhis friendship. Nothing more.

One other fact I noticed: that a little lad, afterward discovered tobe Jem Watkins, to whom had fallen the hard-working lot of the lostBill, had somehow crept into our household as errand-boy, orgardener's boy; and being "cute," and a "scholard," was greatlypatronized by Jael. I noticed, too, that the said Jem, whenever hecame in my way, in house or garden, was the most capital "littlefoot-page" that ever invalid had; knowing intuitively all my needs,and serving me with an unfailing devotion, which quite surprised andpuzzled me at the time. It did not afterwards.

Summer was passing. People began to watch with anxious looks thethin harvest-fields--as Jael often told me, when she came home fromher afternoon walks. "It was piteous to see them," she said; "onlyJuly, and the quartern loaf nearly three shillings, and meal fourshillings a peck."

And then she would glance at our flour-mill, where for several days aweek the water-wheel was as quiet as on Sundays; for my father kepthis grain locked up, waiting for what, he wisely judged, might be aworse harvest than the last. But Jael, though she said nothing,often looked at the flour-mill and shook her head. And after onemarket-day--when she came in rather "flustered," saying there hadbeen a mob outside the mill, until "that young man Halifax" had goneout and spoken to them--she never once allowed me to take my rarewalk under the trees in the Abbey-yard; nor, if she could help it,would she even let me sit watching the lazy Avon from thegarden-wall.

One Sunday--it was the 1st of August, for my father had just comeback from meeting, very much later than usual, and Jael said he hadgone, as was his annual custom on that his wedding-day, to theFriends' burial ground in St. Mary's Lane, where, far away from herown kindred and people, my poor young mother had been laid,--on thisone Sunday I began to see that things were going wrong. AbelFletcher sat at dinner wearing the heavy, hard look which had grownupon his face not unmingled with the wrinkles planted by physicalpain. For, with all his temperance, he could not quite keep down hishereditary enemy, gout; and this week it had clutched him prettyhard.

Dr. Jessop came in, and I stole away gladly enough, and sat for anhour in my old place in the garden, idly watching the stretch ofmeadow, pasture, and harvest land. Noticing, too, more as a prettybit in the landscape than as a fact of vital importance, in how manyplaces the half-ripe corn was already cut, and piled inthinly-scattered sheaves over the fields.

After the doctor left, my father sent for me and all his household:in the which, creeping humbly after the woman-kind, was now numberedthe lad Jem. That Abel Fletcher was not quite himself was proved bythe fact that his unlighted pipe lay on the table, and his afternoontankard of ale sank from foam to flatness untouched.

He first addressed Jael. "Woman, was it thee who cooked the dinnerto-day?"

She gave a dignified affirmative.

"Thee must give us no more such dinners. No cakes, no pastrykickshaws, and only wheaten bread enough for absolute necessity. Ourneighbours shall not say that Abel Fletcher has flour in his mill,and plenty in his house, while there is famine abroad in the land.So take heed."

"I do take heed," answered Jael, staunchly. "Thee canst not say Iwaste a penny of thine. And for myself, do I not pity the poor? OnFirst-day a woman cried after me about wasting good flour in starch--to-day, behold."

And with a spasmodic bridling-up, she pointed to the bouffante whichused to stand up stiffly round her withered old throat, and stick outin front like a pouter pigeon. Alas! its glory and starch were alikedeparted; it now appeared nothing but a heap of crumpled andyellowish muslin. Poor Jael! I knew this was the most heroicpersonal sacrifice she could have made, yet I could not help smiling;even my father did the same.

And I am sure poor Jael was innocent of any jocular intention, asadvancing sternly she pointed to her master's pate, where hislong-worn powder was scarcely distinguishable from the snows of age.He bore the assault gravely and unshrinkingly, merely saying, "Woman,peace!"

"Nor while"--pursued Jael, driven apparently to the last and mostpoisoned arrow in her quiver of wrath--"while the poor folk bestarving in scores about Norton Bury, and the rich folk there willnot sell their wheat under famine price. Take heed to thyself, AbelFletcher."

My father winced, either from a twinge of gout or conscience; andthen Jael suddenly ceased the attack, sent the other servants out ofthe room, and tended her master as carefully as if she had notinsulted him. In his fits of gout my father, unlike most men, becamethe quieter and easier to manage the more he suffered. He had a longfit of pain which left him considerably exhausted. When, being atlast relieved, he and I were sitting in the room alone, he said tome--

"Phineas, the tan-yard has thriven ill of late, and I thought themill would make up for it. But if it will not it will not. Wouldstthee mind, my son, being left a little poor when I am gone?"

"Father!"

"Well, then, in a few days I will begin selling my wheat, as that ladhas advised and begged me to do these weeks past. He is a sharp lad,and I am getting old. Perhaps he is right."

"Who, father?" I asked, rather hypocritically.

"Thee knowest well enough--John Halifax."

I thought it best to say no more; but I never let go one thread ofhope which could draw me nearer to my heart's desire.

On the Monday morning my father went to the tan-yard as usual. Ispent the day in my bed-room, which looked over the garden, where Isaw nothing but the waving of the trees and the birds hopping overthe smooth grass; heard nothing but the soft chime, hour after hour,of the Abbey bells. What was passing in the world, in the town, oreven in the next street, was to me faint as dreams.

At dinner-time I rose, went down-stairs, and waited for my father;waited one, two, three hours. It was very strange. He never by anychance overstayed his time, without sending a message home. So aftersome consideration as to whether I dared encroach upon his formalhabits so much, and after much advice from Jael, who betrayed moreanxiety than was at all warranted by the cause she assigned, viz. thespoiled dinner, I despatched Jem Watkins to the tan-yard to see afterhis master.

He came back with ill news. The lane leading to the tan-yard wasblocked up with a wild mob. Even the stolid, starved patience of ourNorton Bury poor had come to an end at last--they had followed theexample of many others. There was a bread-riot in the town.

God only knows how terrible those "riots" were; when the people rosein desperation, not from some delusion of crazy, blood-thirsty"patriotism," but to get food for themselves, their wives, andchildren. God only knows what madness was in each individual heartof that concourse of poor wretches, styled "the mob," when every mantook up arms, certain that there were before him but twoalternatives, starving or--hanging.

The riot here was scarcely universal. Norton Bury was not a largeplace, and had always abundance of small-pox and fevers to keep thepoor down numerically. Jem said it was chiefly about our mill andour tan-yard that the disturbance lay.

"And where is my father?"

Jem "didn't know," and looked very much as if he didn't care.

"Jael, somebody must go at once, and find my father."

"I am going," said Jael, who had already put on her cloak and hood.Of course, despite all her opposition, I went too.

The tan-yard was deserted; the mob had divided, and gone, one half toour mill, the rest to another that was lower down the river. I askedof a poor frightened bark-cutter if she knew where my father was?She thought he was gone for the "millingtary;" but Mr. Halifax was atthe mill now--she hoped no harm would come to Mr. Halifax.

Even in that moment of alarm I felt a sense of pleasure. I had notbeen in the tan-yard for nearly three years. I did not know John hadcome already to be called "Mr. Halifax."

There was nothing for me but to wait here till my father returned.He could not surely be so insane as to go to the mill--and John wasthere. Terribly was my heart divided, but my duty lay with myfather.

Jael sat down in the shed, or marched restlessly between thetan-pits. I went to the end of the yard, and looked down towards themill. What a half-hour it was!

At last, exhausted, I sat down on the bark heap where John and I hadonce sat as lads. He must now be more than twenty; I wondered if hewere altered.

"Oh, David! David!" I thought, as I listened eagerly for any soundsabroad in the town; "what should I do if any harm came to thee?"

This minute I heard a footstep crossing the yard. No, it was not myfather's--it was firmer, quicker, younger. I sprang from thebarkheap.

"Phineas!"

"John!"

What a grasp that was--both hands! and how fondly and proudly Ilooked up in his face--the still boyish face. But the figure wasquite that of a man now.

For a minute we forgot ourselves in our joy, and then he let go myhands, saying hurriedly--

"Where is your father?"

"I wish I knew!--Gone for the soldiers, they say."

"No, not that--he would never do that. I must go and look for him.Good-bye."

"Nay, dear John!"

"Can't--can't," said he, firmly, "not while your father forbids. Imust go." And he was gone.

Though my heart rebelled, my conscience defended him; marvelling howit was that he who had never known his father should uphold sosternly the duty of filial obedience. I think it ought to act as asolemn warning to those who exact so much from the mere fact and nameof parenthood, without having in any way fulfilled its duties, thatorphans from birth often revere the ideal of that bond far more thanthose who have known it in reality. Always excepting those childrento whose blessed lot it has fallen to have the ideal realized.

In a few minutes I saw him and my father enter the tan-yard together.He was talking earnestly, and my father was listening--ay, listening--and to John Halifax! But whatever the argument was, it failed tomove him. Greatly troubled, but staunch as a rock, my old fatherstood, resting his lame foot on a heap of hides. I went to meet him.

"Phineas," said John, anxiously, "come and help me. No, AbelFletcher," he added, rather proudly, in reply to a sharp, suspiciousglance at us both; "your son and I only met ten minutes ago, and havescarcely exchanged a word. But we cannot waste time over that matternow. Phineas, help me to persuade your father to save his property.He will not call for the aid of the law, because he is a Friend.Besides, for the same reason, it might be useless asking."

"Verily!" said my father, with a bitter and meaning smile.

"But he might get his own men to defend his property, and need not dowhat he is bent on doing--go to the mill himself."

"Surely," was all Abel Fletcher said, planting his oaken stickfirmly, as firmly as his will, and taking his way to the river-side,in the direction of the mill.

I caught his arm--"Father, don't go."

"My son," said he, turning on me one of his "iron looks," as I usedto call them--tokens of a nature that might have ran molten once, andhad settled into a hard, moulded mass, of which nothing couldafterwards alter one form, or erase one line--"My son, no opposition.Any who try that with me fail. If those fellows had waited two daysmore I would have sold all my wheat at a hundred shillings thequarter; now they shall have nothing. It will teach them wisdomanother time. Get thee safe home, Phineas, my son; Jael, go thoulikewise."

But neither went. John held me back as I was following my father.

"He will do it, Phineas, and I suppose he must. Please God, I'lltake care no harm touches him--but you go home."

That was not to be thought of. Fortunately, the time was too brieffor argument, so the discussion soon ended. He followed my fatherand I followed him. For Jael, she disappeared.

There was a private path from the tan-yard to the mill, along theriver-side; by this we went, in silence. When we reached the spot itwas deserted; but further down the river we heard a scuffling, andsaw a number of men breaking down our garden wall.

We crossed the little bridge; John took a key out of his pocket, andlet us into the mill by a small door--the only entrance, and that wasbarred and trebly barred within. It had good need to be in suchtimes.

The mill was a queer, musty, silent place, especially the machineryroom, the sole flooring of which was the dark, dangerous stream. Westood there a good while--it was the safest place, having no windows.Then we followed my father to the top story, where he kept his bagsof grain. There were very many; enough, in these times, to make alarge fortune by--a cursed fortune wrung out of human lives.

"Oh! how could my father--"

"Hush!" whispered John, "it was for his son's sake, you know."

But while we stood, and with a meaning but rather grim smile AbelFletcher counted his bags, worth almost as much as bags of gold--weheard a hammering at the door below. The rioters were come.

Miserable "rioters!"--A handful of weak, starved men--pelting us withstones and words. One pistol-shot might have routed them all--but myfather's doctrine of non-resistance forbade. Small as their forceseemed, there was something at once formidable and pitiful in the lowhowl that reached us at times.

"Bring out the bags!--Us mun have bread!"

"Throw down thy corn, Abel Fletcher!"

"Abel Fletcher WILL throw it down to ye, ye knaves," said my father,leaning out of the upper window; while a sound, half curses, halfcheers of triumph, answered him from below.

"Not because they forced you--not to save your life--but because itwas right."

"Help me with this bag," was all the reply.

It was a great weight, but not too great for John's young arm,nervous and strong. He hauled it up.

"Now, open the window--dash the panes through--it matters not. On tothe window, I tell thee."

"But if I do, the bag will fall into the river. You cannot--oh, no!--you cannot mean that!"

"Haul it up to the window, John Halifax."

But John remained immovable.

"I must do it myself, then;" and, in the desperate effort he made,somehow the bag of grain fell, and fell on his lame foot. Torturedinto frenzy with the pain--or else, I will still believe, my oldfather would not have done such a deed--his failing strength seemeddoubled and trebled. In an instant more he had got the bag halfthrough the window, and the next sound we heard was its heavy splashin the river below.

Flung into the river, the precious wheat, and in the very sight ofthe famished rioters! A howl of fury and despair arose. Someplunged into the water, ere the eddies left by the falling mass hadceased--but it was too late. A sharp substance in the river's bedhad cut the bag, and we saw thrown up to the surface, and whirleddown the Avon, thousands of dancing grains. A few of the men swam,or waded after them, clutching a handful here or there--but by themill-pool the river ran swift, and the wheat had all soondisappeared, except what remained in the bag when it was drawn onshore. Over even that they fought like demons.

We could not look at them--John and I. He put his hand over hiseyes, muttering the Name that, young man as he was, I had never yetheard irreverently and thoughtlessly on his lips. It was a sightthat would move any one to cry for pity unto the Great Father of thehuman family.

Abel Fletcher sat on his remaining bags, in an exhaustion that Ithink was not all physical pain. The paroxysm of anger past, he,ever a just man, could not fail to be struck with what he had done.He seemed subdued, even to something like remorse.

John looked at him, and looked away. For a minute he listened insilence to the shouting outside, and then turned to my father.

"Sir, you must come now. Not a second to lose--they will fire themill next."

"Let them."

"Let them?--and Phineas is here!"

My poor father! He rose at once.

We got him down-stairs--he was very lame--his ruddy face all drawnand white with pain; but he did not speak one word of opposition, orutter a groan of complaint.

The flour-mill was built on piles, in the centre of the narrow river.It was only a few steps of bridge-work to either bank. The littledoor was on the Norton Bury side, and was hid from the oppositeshore, where the rioters had now collected. In a minute we had creptforth, and dashed out of sight, in the narrow path which had beenmade from the mill to the tan-yard.

"Will you take my arm? we must get on fast."

"Home?" said my father, as John led him passively along.

"No, sir, not home: they are there before you. Your life's not safean hour--unless, indeed, you get soldiers to guard it."

Abel Fletcher gave a decided negative. The stern old Quaker held tohis principles still.

"Then you must hide for a time--both of you. Come to my room. Youwill be secure there. Urge him, Phineas--for your sake and his own."

But my poor broken-down father needed no urging. Grasping moretightly both John's arm and mine, which, for the first time in hislife, he leaned upon, he submitted to be led whither we chose. So,after this long interval of time, I once more stood in Sally Watkins'small attic; where, ever since I first brought him there, JohnHalifax had lived.

Sally knew not of our entrance; she was out, watching the rioters.No one saw us but Jem, and Jem's honour was safe as a rock. I knewthat in the smile with which he pulled off his cap to "Mr. Halifax."

"Now," said John, hastily smoothing his bed, so that my father mightlie down, and wrapping his cloak round me--"you must both be verystill. You will likely have to spend the night here. Jem shallbring you a light and supper. You will make yourself easy, AbelFletcher?"

"Ay." It was strange to see how decidedly, yet respectfully, Johnspoke, and how quietly my father answered.

"And, Phineas"--he put his arm round my shoulder in his old way--"youwill take care of yourself. Are you any stronger than you used tobe?"

I clasped his hand without reply. My heart melted to hear thattender accent, so familiar once. All was happening for the best, ifit only gave me back David.

"Now good-bye--I must be off."

"Whither?" said my father, rousing himself.

"To try and save the house and the tan-yard--I fear we must give upthe mill. No, don't hold me, Phineas. I run no risk: everybodyknows me. Besides, I am young. There! see after your father. Ishall come back in good time."

He grasped my hands warmly--then unloosed them; and I heard his stepdescending the staircase. The room seemed to darken when he wentaway.

The evening passed very slowly. My father, exhausted with pain, layon the bed and dozed. I sat watching the sky over the housetops,which met in the old angles, with the same blue peeps between. Ihalf forgot all the day's events--it seemed but two weeks, instead oftwo years ago, that John and I had sat in this attic-window, conningour Shakspeare for the first time.

Ere twilight I examined John's room. It was a good deal changed; thefurniture was improved; a score of ingenious little contrivances madethe tiny attic into a cosy bed-chamber. One corner was full ofshelves, laden with books, chiefly of a scientific and practicalnature. John's taste did not lead him into the current literature ofthe day: Cowper, Akenside, and Peter Pindar were alike indifferentto him. I found among his books no poet but Shakspeare.

He evidently still practised his old mechanical arts. There waslying in the window a telescope--the cylinder made of pasteboard--into which the lenses were ingeniously fitted. A roughtelescope-stand, of common deal, stood on the ledge of the roof, fromwhich the field of view must have been satisfactory enough to theyoung astronomer. Other fragments of skilful handiwork, chieflymeant for machinery on a Lilliputian scale, were strewn about thefloor; and on a chair, just as he had left it that morning, stood aloom, very small in size, but perfect in its neat workmanship, with afew threads already woven, making some fabric not so very unlikecloth.

I had gone over all these things without noticing that my father wasawake, and that his sharp eye had observed them likewise.

"The lad works hard," said he, half to himself. "He has useful handsand a clear head." I smiled, but took no notice whatever.

Evening began to close in--less peacefully than usual--over NortonBury; for, whenever I ventured to open the window, we heard unusualand ominous sounds abroad in the town. I trembled inwardly. ButJohn was prudent, as well as brave: besides, "everybody knew him."Surely he was safe.

Faithfully, at supper-time, Jem entered. But he could tell us nonews; he had kept watch all the time on the staircase by desire of"Mr. Halifax"--so he informed me. My father asked no questions--noteven about his mill. From his look, sometimes, I fancied he yetbeheld in fancy these starving men fighting over the precious food,destroyed so wilfully--nay, wickedly. Heaven forgive me, his son, ifI too harshly use the word; for I think, till the day of his death,that cruel sight never wholly vanished from the eyes of my poorfather.